


I was fated, faithful, fatal.

by AdrianaCrazyWolf



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Clubbing, Drug Dealing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Typical homophobia, fixing Shamless' fuck up, mickey deserved better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaCrazyWolf/pseuds/AdrianaCrazyWolf
Summary: Sammy doesn't come back and stays dead. Mickey never goes to jail and instead is left broken hearted in front of the Gallagher house. So what happens from there? How do they deal with losing the most important thing they've ever had and can they ever come back together?This fic is a canon divergence because the shit that went down at the end of season five was fucking bullshit and Mickey deserved better. So i fixed it. Enjoy.





	1. God know's why

**Author's Note:**

> So i really want to do this fic justice cuz i just found this ship so it might take a while for me to finish. Yeah i know im late to the party but season five fucked me up more than it probably should and i wanted to fix the one event that fucked Mickeys entire plot line. I hope that i do him justice.

A cold Chicago sun beat down on the Gallagher house, on its porch and the two broken boys standing there.

“This is it… this is you breaking up with me” he whimpered, swallowing around the bitter air that was stuck in his lungs and made his eyes water, because he wasn't crying. Milkovich’s don't fucking cry, not over their boyfriends that they had tried to give the world to.

Mickey just stared, tearing at his bottom lip as Ian turned around to face him without ever meeting his gaze. Ian’s skin was glowing with a sickly light, shadows and hair the colour of hot flames framing his sunken face. Mickey was desperately searching the profile he loved, trying to find a flicker of pain or shadow of regret in what he was saying, but all he found was a numbness that seemed too familiar. The weeks of an unmoving body, dead eyes that stared through him, memories that would send bile up his throat if the shit Ian was saying hadn’t already done the job.

“Yeah” Ian murmured, swaying slightly with the wind as he shoved his shaking hands in the pockets of his dirty and worn jeans. “Really… fuck” Mickey choked as he felt his face start to twist into a defensive snarl that he knew wouldn't bring anything good. Not right now anyway. He lets himself fall back onto his left foot, turning to look down the bleak street and fight the itch to run or throw a punch with a violently clenched fist. Ian followed Mickey’s nondescript line of sight, feeling out the moment of pause before looking back at Mickey, at the guy he claimed to love but couldn't stand to be around anymore. He didn't know why, he honestly didn't seem to know shit these days, but he knew he couldn't do it, he couldn't look into eyes that held fear instead of the fire he fell for. He let his eyes drop again when Mickey quickly looked back, seeing his run him thumb over his lip from the corner of his eye. 

Ian knew pretty damn well what he was doing here. Although he couldn't give you a reason why, he knew that he was tearing Mickey to pieces. He could see it in his face. Ian wondered if he was trying to hide his pain, like when they were young, or if Ian had really softened him to the point where he was just about ready to cry on the street in front of anyone who wanted to watch. And as awful as Ian knew it was, he couldn’t stand to look at him. Had you asked Ian two years ago what he thought about a crying Mickey he would have rejoiced, relished in the fact that Mickey gave enough of a shit to cry over him, but Ian didn’t need that now. He knew Mickey cared, he didn’t need to see him weep on his doorstep to know that. Ian wasn’t sure what he needed right now, he had said that he needed the thug he fell for but he wasn’t even sure if that was true. 

But with a familiar coldness settling into his bones he knew one thing, and that was that he didn’t need Mickey.

He didn’t need someone who would keep trying to change him and fix him. He didn't need a fucking nurse to be by his side every second of the day to tell him to take his meds or to go to sleep or to not drink. And that was what Mickey had become. He’d become his nurse with a bad attitude who was trying to fix a broken patient. And Ian didn’t need that.

“You should probably go, Mickey” Ian grumbled, turning around for the last time and heading inside, not waiting to see his now ex lover walk away. 

Mickey stood in shock for a moment before running a hand over his face, feeling his body start to shake and collapse under itself. He dug his hands into the metal fence, almost falling to the floor as he let himself shrink into a ball, only for a second, only so he could retie his laces or whatever stupid fucking excuse he could come up with had someone seen that one moment he let himself feel weak. Standing back up, he ran tattooed hands through his dirty hair before started to walk away as quickly as he could without running, trying to ignore the nausea that was twisting his gut.

 

Ian dragged his feet across the floor of his home, not having the energy or the will to lift them. It felt like he was on the meds again, but he hadn't taken them in about a week so the numbness that was massaging his brain was clearly his own shit that he was going to have to deal with. Later though. Before he could start to drag himself up the staircase to his room rapid footsteps coming from the kitchen caught his attention. “Heya sweetface” called that cheery voice that grated against the inside of his skull every time he heard it. Ian let his head fall to the side so he could look at Fiona who was now dashing to his side, knowing it was better to talk to her now so she would leave him alone and let him sleep. God, sleep sounded like a great idea. 

“Where have you been? Jesus, we’ve all been worried sick” she called as she grabbed and bear hugged him, ignoring his arms that stayed limply by his side. Sighing and pulling away, she ran a careful hand through his hair and scanned his face, Ian watching the expression of worry twist to one of pity as she picked up on the coldness in Ian's demeanour. She slowly wrapped her arms around herself, mom mode clearly pushing forward to “deal” with him. “What going on man, you don't look good? Did mom look after you? Did she...” Ian ground his teeth together as he listened to her ramble about shit she didn't understand before quickly and loudly interrupting her. “Mom didn't do anything” he spat at her, so desperate to feel again that he let the rage cloud him for just a moment. “ This has got nothing to do with her” came as a whisper that he didn't mean to sound as broken as it did.

He turned away from her, but it felt so slow. Too slow. Slow enough for Fiona to ask more questions and demand more answers and Ian didn't know if he could do it right now. “Then what has it got to do with?” And even though she asked it in a voice no louder than a murmur it seemed to ring and echo in the room and inside of Ian’s head. Closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards, begging for the mercy of any god that would listen, he let out an empty sigh and started to move up the stairs, talking in a husk and worn voice. “I broke up with Mickey. I don't wanna talk about it.”

Ian left with Fiona giving Veronica a wide eyed look of fear and panic.

 

The walk back home was quiet but the house was quieter. It wasn’t anything new, although the times were rare, there were moments of silence when he was growing up. Even after his shithead of a father started to make regular visits to the iron city, there were always people going in and out, like Mandy or Svetlana and Yevgeny and the silence was less common then, coming only in the wee hours of the morning when everyone had managed to be passed out at the same time.

But slowly, everyone had started to leave. First dad, after the infamous fight at the Alibi and getting put behind bars, then Mandy with Kenyatta, so he could beat her away from the prying eyes of her brother. And then Svetlana, along with their baby, and although he moaned and groaned about the baby crying more than actually talking to the woman, he had somehow found a place for her in his home. Not as his wife, but just as someone who was there, Russian insults and all. Mickey isn't quite sure when he started to call Yevgeny their baby or his son, but at some point he did and unlike just about every change in his life to this point he didn’t fight it. The kid may have been born out of the worst experience of his life but that wasn’t Yev’s fault, and if he was started to love the kid then good, maybe he could be a step up from the father Terry was.

Although it didn’t matter now. Svet had left too, leaving the house void of Russian profanities that Mickey was used to hearing. Svet left because of Ian, because Mickey wasn't going to get rid of him because he wanted him to get better and he’d do everything he could to make her see that Ian wasn’t a danger.

But look how fucking far that got him. Even Ian had left him, and with Iggy doing god knows what most nights that made him almost never come home, the house was silent and empty and cold. 

Mickey unlocked the door with numb fingers, deftly pushing open the door and wandering inside the building he, for one stupid fucking second, thought he might be able to call home. He didn’t even think about it as he shuffled to one of the grime covered cabinets, he didn't think about it when he picked up the bottle whiskey, and certainly didn’t think about getting a glass to pour the poison in. Instead he collapsed on the couch in the living room, staring at nothing in particular while he chugged an almost dangerous amount of the amber liquid in one go. Mickey was going to ignore that it was still broad daylight outside, probably no later that two in the afternoon. He was gonna drink until he was so slow he couldn’t think anymore, and with any luck he would pass out before evening rolled around.


	2. Stoned and alone like a heretic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dust had settled. Kind of. Not really. So, how is everyone holding up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so im not giving myself a schedule for this cuz i will never follow it, however the plan is to get at least one chapter done a week. I want to thank everyone for reading the first chapter and to everyone that left comments or kudos' and whatnot. It means a whole lot.

His shoulder hurt. That was the first thing Ian noticed waking up, dragging his eyes open and taking a slow, intoxicating breath of whatever was being cooked down stairs. Rolling on his back and running a hand over the tender muscle, he tried to recall what happened last night, how the hell he managed to get himself home. Bitter memories of flashing lights and throbbing in his bones from the bass he was rolling his body to blur through his mind before his attention quickly falls on the steps through the hallway, slow and deliberate thumps on the floor approaching his door.

Ian quickly pulled himself out of bed, pulling off last nights jeans that he hadn’t managed to take off before collapsing in bed at four in the morning. Chucking off his shirt and not bothering to change his boxers, Ian started to scrounge through his clothes, pointedly ignoring the figure that was now standing in the doorway.

“You going to ignore me forever, or just until you need someone to scrape you off the floor coming home from that dirty club you're dancing at” came Lips gruff voice, anger trying to disguise the worry that just about everyone felt for Ian these days. Ian faced away, pulling on some mildly clean shorts and a loose t shirt, enjoying the little bit of sun that had managed to squirm its way through the decayed curtains of his childhood bedroom. He heard Lip heavily sigh as he trudged passed him out of the room and down the hallway, not paying attention as he was followed down into the kitchen.

The kitchen was quiet apart from Lip’s grumbling at Ian. It wasn’t something Ian was used to yet, the silence in the morning. Before he left the army it was always chaos in the morning, but since then Debbie and Carl had grown up and started leaving early for school, Fiona was working at that diner just about every hour god sends and Lip could only come around to the house every few days. But then again, when they are around Ian wishes that they would just fuck off again. He was stuck in this perpetual state of wanting his old life full of chaos and not being able to stand the people who could make that happen for him. He had come to hate nearly everything he once loved and he didn’t know where that left him, except for dancing in a club for dirty tips from grubby old hands.

Ian had managed to tune out most of what Lip had been ranting at him about, having gotten very good at it in the last week, not only with Lip, but Fiona and Debbie too. The only person he bothered to pay attention was Carl as his corrupted idea of mental illness gave him a well needed laugh every now again.

“You know Mickey’s been helping Carl deal right?” Lip commented, rounding up stray plates that scattered the scuffed up table, causing Ian to freeze his search for food in the cupboards. “How am I supposed to know? Mickey’s bad influence isn’t my business anymore” he said with a dismissive yet somehow pointed tone. “Besides, we did the same thing with ice cream truck. He’s helping to pay bills.” Ian finished his comment with a shrug, turning around from the freezer empty handed. He reached for the coffee, giving up on his search for food while Lip weaved around him from the sink to sit on the other side of the breakfast bar. “Yeah, well, that was weed and beer. I'm pretty sure the kids moving bricks. Probably why he’s got Mickey involved, no shortage of expertise there right?” The knowing smirk that played on his lips while he sparked up made it clear that he didn’t expect Ian to answer.

Ian met his eyes with his own for only a moment, looking back down into his lukewarm coffee and letting the silence settle back into the air of the kitchen. “You gonna go for a run?” Lip asked before spitting into his hand and stubbing out his cigarette in it, leaving the crushed filter on the counter top. “Yeah, after i find something to eat in this shithole.” Ian laughed drily at his own unfunny comment, some part of him trying to make this situation seem semi normal and not like Lip was checking in on his brother who he thought was crazy. “Well, Fiona left a plate of eggs and bacon in the oven for you, so i guess you could have that,” he said, standing up from his chair to move to the back door and grab his jacket, throwing it on and opening the door while calling out behind him “have a good run, Ian.”

 

Mickey was final roused from his few hours of sleep by the incessant banging of his front door.

“ AY IGGY WHAT THE FUCK?” Mickey shouted as he flung himself out of bed and stomped into the living room, finding Iggy hauling armfuls of their old junk that Ian had thrown out onto their lawn during one of his manic episodes. Just looking at it made his blood boil. “Whats up man? You finally rolled out of bed” he drowsily responded, a crooked smirk grazing his pasty face.

“The fuck are doing man, why the fuck to bringing all the shit back in?” he grumbled, rubbing his face to get all the gunk out of his eyes.

“Well, I figured that since your boyfriend fucked off we could get all our shit back, you know. Get shit back to normal.”

Mickey sniffed and rubbed his nose, looking away from all the junk that had been brought back into the house and purposely ignoring the boyfriend comment. His emotional well had dried up the night shit hit the fan and now he was left empty, and when he felt empty he became angry. It was his default by this point “Yeah, well quit banging the fucking front door. I'm trying to fucking sleep” he grouched, turning around to head back to his room so he could pass out for a few more hours. “Ay man, don’t you have some dope to shift? Thought you were meeting up with that Eliot kid” Iggy droned from the other room. Mickey stopped in his doorway, running his hands through his hair with a gravely sigh before quickly gathering and putting on a shirt and jeans while shouting back “yeah, yeah, i heading out in a minute,” checking the time on his phone he mumbled “someones gotta make some fucking money.”

He walked out of his room and directly to the coffee maker, filling a mug halfway with coffee before instinctively reaching for the half drunk bottle of jack on the counter to fill up the rest of the cup. He took a hearty sip and leaned on the counter while Iggy made another comment, lifting a spliff that had magically appeared to his lips “so uh, what's going on with that Gallagher kid?” Mickey gave him a hard stare while running his tongue on his bottom lip, knuckles turning white from his grip on the coffee cup. He stared as the cogs slowly turned in his brothers head, catching on to his question sounded like. “No, not carrot top, the uhh… the other one. Small kid.”

“You mean Carl?Making sure he doesn’t get shot. Kids a dumbass” Mickey responded, gulping down the rest of his bootleg Irish coffee and slamming the cup into the sink with more force than necessary before stomping over and taking two deep drags of the pot, letting his mind become a haze he was all too familiar with. “He's giving us a cut for setting him up with some guys. Its more than you’re fucking doing, sitting around bringing fucking trash into the house.”

Mickey walked over to the backpack that had been placed by the pile of worn down and tattered shoes that lay by the front door. Roughly opening it, he checked its contents, lifting out one of the bags of dope, feeling out the weight of it. He quickly placed it back in the bag along with the other four bags, zipping it back up. Hastily dragging on his sneakers and old coat, he threw the bag over his shoulder and left the house after another two extended drags of the weed, with no more that a mumbled comment to Iggy about getting rid of the junk he had brought inside.

Fishing out the old mobile he stole off some old, drunk fairy at the club Ian worked at, he shot off a text to the Eliot kid, asking him where exactly he wanted to meet while he walked aimlessly down the barren street. The response was almost immediate.

 _Im by the dugouts. Be here in ten_.

 

Ian had always been a creature of habit. Maybe it came from him training nearly all his life to be in the army, maybe it came from him trying to find some sort of clarity in the midst of his chaotic life, with his mother leaving for however long she felt like and his dad only showing back up to scrounge for money. Trying to find some security where he could. But lately he had stopped clinging to habits. He stopped getting up at the ass crack of dawn, he stopped going to school and stopped showing up to family dinners. He went with the flow and let what will be, be. He liked to tell himself that he was growing up, he was maturing and becoming his own person doing his own things but his new go with the flow attitude was starting to look like a certain neglectful mother.

The one thing he had clung to, the last remnant of who he used to be was the running. It didn’t matter when he woke up, be it half seven in the morning or three in the afternoon, he went for a run. Six miles each day, the same route day in and day out, until the burn in his lungs and limbs shut his body down.

Why today in particular Ian took a different route, he didn’t know. He took a left instead of a right in front of his house and just went with it, letting his legs take him wherever they felt like going while his music blasted through his second hand earphones.Where as his normal route would take him close to the north side, a place he was familiar with but never truly felt comfortable in, today he was jogging around an area he knew like the back of his hand, somewhere he could navigate with his eyes closed. Passing the dying houses that were washed out in pale Chicago sun (what little flickers there were in late fall), he fought his minds yearning to go down memory lane like his body currently was.

He changed the song, the melody too slow and sad and stirring up too many memories and feelings he didn’t want to deal with right now, that he never wanted to deal with. Ian knew better than to fall down that hole. He knew better than to reminisce over times and people that he could never get back, it made him soft and pliable to those that wanted to change him. He got wrapped up in the love they used to give and thought, thinking if he did what they said maybe he could get what he used to have back. But his mother was right, people would try to change him and he didn’t need to be changed or fixed. He needed to be his own person.

If only everyone else could see that.

Ian didn’t notice how much he had zoned out until he felt his feet stop pummelling the ground, his brain catching up with his body as he took in where exactly he had run to. The familiar glare of metal fencing and a striking colours of a painted field made his throat constrict and every hair on his body stand on end. The nausea that was building in his stomach wasn’t helped by the familiar shape of someone he was trying desperately to forget.

Almost on instinct, Ian ducked behind a dying tree while digging his blunt nails into his fleshy palms. He needed to leave. He needed to get the fuck out of there before he was seen and made a mess of the open wound he had covered in fifteen layers of bandages so he didn't notice it wasn't healing. He had broke it off, he didn’t know why seeing his ex freaked him out like this, it was what he wanted. At least at the time it was what he wanted, it was what he told himself when he woke up in a bed that was cold in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Peeking out of his pathetic hiding spot, he let himself take a proper look at the man he had spent the majority of his adolescence fighting for.

He looked rough. Really fucking rough. His skin looked dull and hard, lacking any life in a way Ian had never seen before. The whites of his eyes were dirty in a way that reminded Ian too much of Franks and the dark circles around them where a close shade to his hair. A cigarette hung limply from lips that where a painful red from being bitten raw. He stood like he always did, shoulders back and back straight to make up for his lack of stature but it was so fake Ian felt like gagging. Mickey’s i’ll fucking kill you attitude was the one thing he never had to fake but the bravado was gone. In its place stood something that looked more like a victim than the survivor he had become so familiar with.

“Ay man, where the fuck you been? You were supposed to be here like five minutes ago” Ian ducked behind the tree again, listening to the gravelly voice reverberate in the cold air. He took another look, seeing a skinny kid with dirty blond hair stroll up to Mickey, shifting a black backpack that rested lightly on his shoulders. “Since when did you started showing up on time to shit?”

“Yeah, yeah. You got the money or not, dickwad?” he grumbled and Ian couldn’t help but feel his chest flutter for a moment at the familiar way the insult fell from his ex’s lips. He watched the kid drop his bag to the ground, Mickey quickly rifling through its contents.

Mickey stood up and quickly looked around, thumbing his bottom lip before chucking his bag at the feet of the other kid. His quickly scooped up the blonde guys bag, turning on his heel and keeping his head down. “Good doing business with ya” he shouted, turning the corner of the fence and walking down the street, quickly out of Ian’s line of sight. It was over quickly, quicker than Ian thought a drug deal would take. _He left too soon._

Ian hated the fact he wanted to run after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ive been listening to The Pale Emperor on repeat while writing cuz its the perfect mood for the story and i am probably going to continue to reference it throughout the fic. I might name every chapter with a lyric from the album who the hell knows, i dont. The title of the fic and this chapter comes from a song called The Mephistopheles Of Los Angeles if you were curious.


	3. You ran away, you're all the same.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Alibi time. How else do you think Mickey would deal with all this shit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea, yea, i know i'm a bitch. I really don't have an excuse for taking over two weeks to upload this chapter. My birthday happened around the time i was gonna get to uploading and it has escaped me since. I'm gonna get on it from now on cuz i want this finished by the time i move to uni.
> 
> Also the title of this chapter comes from the song Snuff by Slipknot.

Night had finally painted the sky, the last strokes of orange and pink being covered by a cold and deep blue that was thickened by the winter clouds that scattered the sky. Though he had only been walking for twenty minutes, the frigid air had stuck into his bones and made his skin feel dead.

Why the fuck didn’t The Alibi have lights? The dark and dirty red that had been used to paint the outside didn’t exactly draw the eye and the sign for the bar hung high enough that you didn’t notice it unless you where looking for. It made Mickey’s mission to go there and get shitfaced difficult as the anger that had been sitting under his skin for the past week had made his vision dull and his brain mush. 

After making his way back because he had somehow walked passed the entrance, Mickey had his hand on the peeling, dusty paint of door to The Alibi when it bursts open, the infamous Frank managing to stumble out without slamming into him. He took a few steps back to watch the dirty alcoholic fall forward onto the crumbling sidewalk, murmuring something about “the gypos” which Mickey quickly discarded in favour of reaching for the door again, his body tense and tired and screaming for alcohol. 

The first things his gaze caught was the dejected looks of Lip and Fiona, no doubt because of Frank and his problem with “gypos”, which quickly transformed into a look of shock and pity. Promptly ignoring them, Mickey whipped off his coat and murmured to Kevin while dropping himself onto a creaky bar stool, “Whiskey, leave the bottle.” He brought out a pack of cigarettes and lit one while Kevin put a glass and bottle of whiskey on the bar, delicately asking “so how you doin’ man? Haven’t seen you around here in awhile.”

He could feel three pairs of eyes digging into him as he poured himself far more then two fingers of booze and downed it, trying to settle the twisting in his gut. “Fine. Been working” he quietly snarled, pouring himself more of the drink, desperate to make quick work on the bottle and leave. Kev nodded, sending Fiona and Lip a cautious look before picking up a dirty rag and flicking it over his shoulder, walking way to pretend to clean glasses.

“You sure about that? I mean, not to be rude, but you kinda look like shit.” 

Mickey ran his tongue along his bottom lip at the cocky remark, lifting his head from where it had been hanging between his shoulders to meet Lips calculated stare. “And who the fuck asked you huh?” he responded with less bite than he would have liked. He let his head drop again, taking a deep and bitter drag of his fag, watching the smoke billow from it into the stale air of the bar. He could see them staring out of the corner of his eye, it made his skin prick and throat tighten and he fucking hated it. He hated the small part of him that had come to like them over the time he had spent at the Gallagher house.

“The fuck you staring at?” this time his words had all the aggression he wanted. It was easy to convert the pain to anger. Real fucking easy. “I'm just saying, neither of you have been doin alright since you split” Lip murmured absentmindedly while Fiona continued to look at Mickey with that motherly concern that seemed so at home on her face. “You don’t know shit” he simply replied, topping up his glass more that he probably should. He took another large swig and drag of his cigarette, listening to the scrape of the stool being pushed back as he stared into the glass of shitty amber liquid in front of him. Thank fuck they’re leaving. The squeaking of the stool next to him made his head snap up to see Lip making himself comfortable with his half finished pint.

“The fuck are you doin’?” Mickey spat him, watching as Fiona moved to join them. Lip gave her a look before turning back to Mickey, both of them looking at their drinks. Mickey felt every hair stand up on end, his gut suddenly seizing like he was going to be jumped. His short and blunt fingernails dug into the splintering wood of the bar as his top lip curled into a snarl, “ay, whatever the fuck your’e gonna say, just fucking spit it out.” He heard Lip sigh, as he went back to drinking and smoking, eyeing up the bottles stashed in front of the mirror behind the bar. Mickey ran a clammy hand through his dirty hair, getting tired of waiting for Lip to grow a pair and say what he wants to say when he heard Fiona’s broken voice “Ian needs you, Mickey.”

Letting eyes quickly flick to Fiona’s face, finally noticing how hollow her face had become, he ran his tongue across his bottom lip before biting it, desperately ignoring the instinct to run. 

“That bitch aint my problem anymore” he replied flatly, topping up his glass again and downing it just as quickly. “You said he was family, Mickey. Family don’t give up on each other, not even when they push you away” Fiona snapped back, an overly motherly tone in her voice. “I don't fucking need this shit” Mickey grumbled, picking up his coat while slamming a few bills on the bar, grabbing the bottle and making to storm out of the bar, stopping in his tracks when Lip calls out “I thought you loved him, Mickey?” 

He froze. Mickey quickly looked around the bar to see a few sets of dull eyes had started to watch, not realising just how loud he had gotten in his little debate with the two oldest Gallaghers. He could feel his breath catching in his throat as quickly ran his thumb over his bottom lip, ignoring the looks from the other patrons before approaching Lip and grabbing his collar. 

“... You don’t know shit” Mickey growled before letting go with a bit too much force. Fiona was about to open her mouth when Mickey quietly interrupted “I ain’t gonna talk about it, not here.” His dug the heel of his free hand into his eyes, trying to relieve the burning that he hadn’t felt since the afternoon that started his downward spiral. “The back alley then,” Lip said, standing before clapping Mickey on the back and turning to his sister who had a cautious brow cocked, “you can tell us all about it.”

Mickey watched as they turned and exited from the back door, feeling heavy words rattle in his skull. Taking a final drag of his cigarette that was basically just a filter and a hefty gulp of the whiskey, he trudged after them with a less than intimidating look to Kevin that only raised his hands in mock surrender and went back to wiping down the bar. 

The cold air knocks him in the gut, suddenly making the effect of the alcohol kick in. God, I should not have this conversation drunk. The alley stunk of mold and vomit and stale booze but its was smell that existed almost permanently in his life so it didn’t churn his stomach the way it probably should. Lip and Fiona were barely lit by the pale light of a street lamp around the corner and the few glowing windows from the apartments across the passageway. Quickly lighting another cigarette, Mickey watched Lip light the one hanging out of Fiona’s mouth as her arms were wrapped tightly around her body, the mild shaking of her arms not being lost on Mickey. 

“You gonna fucking say something, or are we just gonna stand here freezing our dicks off?” Mickey snapped far louder than he needed to in the echoey backstreet. “Ian hasn’t been taking his meds” Fiona started, the quiver in her voice grabbing his attention more than he would admit, “ even when he’s not manic, the shit he says doesn’t make sense. He disappears at all fucking hours without telling us where he’s going and without answering our texts and calls.”

“He’s got his old job back in boystown” Lip bitterly added.

“Yeah. To be honest, each day he starting to look more and more like Monica.” Mickey dropped his cigarette and took two heavy steps towards them, the broken tone in Fiona’s voice doing nothing to dull the anger that her last sentence sent through. “Don't fucking talk about him like that” Mickey growled into their faces. “He’s got the same shit as her but that don’t make him like that bitch, alright. He’s just… confused, i don’t know.” 

“The fuck has he got to be confused about?” Lip started, taking a step forward as his voice started to get louder, bordering on shouting. “Fuck if i know, hes come back and his shits all fucked” Mickey was starting to shout now, the echo of the alley ringing in his ears while looking away from Fiona’s increasingly concerned gaze to zero in on Lip “The fuck you suggest we do, because he was a whole lot better with you around but now you’ve left…”

Mickey let him trail off, feeling that body-freezing cold come over him for a moment. He ran his tongue over the corner of his lips before taking a deep swig of whiskey and passing it to Fiona, who took the bottle reflexively while watching him with wide eyes, waiting for his next move.

It was a pretty predictable one, to be honest.

Mickey lunged over to Lip and quickly drove his fist onto the side of his face, causing Fiona to take a step back and watch in awe and shock. Lip was doubled over for only a moment but it gave Mickey the time to take another swing and knock him to the ground, the alley now being filled with the sound of heavy breathing and Fiona’s shrill commentary which Mickey easily ignored. Searing heat was pulsing from every fibre of his being, it made his chest and brain ache, his hands tremble and he didn’t know how to get rid of it without turning the eldest Gallagher brother into a bloody pulp. He only took a split second to reach down and drag Lip to his feet, stumbling as Mickey pushed him against the crumbling wall of The Alibi. The crack of his skull hitting the brick was almost like cold water to the face.

“You don’t know shit” Mickey snarled into Lips face, able to smell the blood from his split eyebrow and lip. He pulled away for only a moment before viciously kneeing Lip in the groin and watching him topple to the floor before finally being dragged back by Fiona who had let the bottle of liquor fall and shatter on the ground. “MICKEY WHAT THE FUCK?” she shrieked into his ear, pushing him away from Lip so she could go over and get him off the ground, quietly murmuring to Lip as she hoisted up about him being a “fucking idiot”. 

The anger was dying, the heat fading but the shakes stayed and pain the fuelled the fire was the only things left as he breathed in the stale air, idly rubbing his thumb over his now bruising knuckles. “Mickey…” Fiona started after checking out Lip who had quickly shrugged off her motherly concern, “ Ian told me what happened. I know he br…” Mickey loudly cut her off, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence. “Yeah, he told me to fuck off and now you fucks want me to go running back to him like some kinda bitch” he said, his voice cracking in ways that made him want to kick his own ass. “I mean, you were his bitch, weren't you” Lip groggily added, somehow managing to sound like a cocky asshole with a mouth full of blood.

“Lip, for fuck sake…” Fiona groaned while hitting him upside the head, purposely aiming for the spot that got smashed into the wall. Her eyes quickly went back to Mickey, expecting to see him charging back at Lip only to find him standing still, looking down into the darkness of the alley while aimlessly rubbing his bottom lip as the limited light that found its way down there shone over his teary eyes. “Mickey, i know he fucked you over but he needs you. You were always able to get to him when we couldn't” Fiona begged, crossing her arms defensively over her chest while swallowing the lump that was building in her throat.

Mickey let the silence settle, not knowing whether his voice would work at this point as he was desperately choking down the tears that he swore weren't falling down the side of his face, just out of view of the Gallagher siblings. “Fuck” he quietly gasped, harshly rubbing the heal of his hand into his eyes while fishing out his crumpled pack of smokes and trying to pretend the two sets of eyes boring into him didn’t make him want to sink into the ground. 

The clicking of the lighter was the only sound made as Mickey finally managed to stop the tears he would deny ever existed. He gave them both one last look that he tried to make as stone cold as he could, before turning back to the shabby door of the Alibi and calling out to them “not my fucking problem anymore.”


End file.
